


Below Freezing

by Strawberry_day



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-11-28 01:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_day/pseuds/Strawberry_day
Summary: Freak weather brings about a freak run in.





	1. Chapter 1

Roman was only out because Tabitha refused to order in. 

“It’s too cold to make people deliver us sushi.” Tabitha sighed, “Go eat some trail mix or something.” 

“I’m not Louis and fucking Clark.” Roman, threw on his scarf, “You know, Postmates shouldn’t get to act like the fucking Postal Service of food and not deliver through sleet, snow, and urine.”

So here he was, downstairs at one of the only close, open spots––that Hudson Yards restaurant that felt like a suburban casino with a Michelin Star. And there _ she _ was, seated, one graceful, commanding hand languidly flipping her hair back, the other curling up some anonymous man’s arm. 

It took him a full minute to absorb it. It was too late and too cold for business. But this was also Gerri, she would take a late and cold one for the team. Roman tried to let this thought take control, of course it was business. He would _ know _if Gerri was dating––courting, going steady whatever her fucking generation called it. He would know. Of course. He would know.

“Sir?” The host stood, arm outstretched, obviously had been for a minute. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Oh.” Roman righted himself, plastered on a smirk. “No, I’d rather hang myself from the exposed beams.” 

He sauntered up to the table slowly. He wanted his presence to dawn on her, for her to slowly remove her arm from that fucker’s on his approach, but no. She was laughing now, leaning forward, when Roman struck. 

“Well, well––little late in the evening for the senior special.” 

Gerri didn’t give anything away, an easy smile dawning on her lips, “Ah, what an ageist surprise.”

“Supreme hunger has driven me down to this shithole. Thinking now I should have just stayed at home and eaten Tabitha’s hands.” 

Gerri cleared her throat and raised a hand to him, “Douglas, the erudite Roman Roy.” 

“Ah, one of the Roy progeny. Douglas Miller.” the stranger extended his hand, “A pleasure.” 

Roman raised his eyebrows and stared at his outstretched hand, “I don’t know where that’s been.” He shifted, “Ger––do you have––could we have a chat?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well.” Roman lied, “I just got a text from dad actually––an hour ago.” 

“An hour ago is not ‘just’.”

Roman playfully snarled his lip, “Ok, well. Then I could sit down, start sucking ice cubes out of Doug here’s bourbon––or you could chat for like 4 minutes. Choices, choices.” 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“Make it quick. I’m having a nice night––” 

“Nice? At this chain restaurant, which is desperately trying to bury that fact in even shitter aesthetics.”

Gerri rolled her eyes, “I have told you. I have no patience for you seeping into all my after hours.”

“Ooo, seep. Come on, let me be your own personal Chernobyl.” 

“Roman.” 

That tone. Like the first snap of a firecracker, it registered in Roman’s groin. 

“Who is that?” It was real. An incredulous hurt lined the question and he knew it. It came out so fast, he didn’t have time to bury the lede. 

Gerri looked at him, really looked at him. She knew. Like she always did, when he was exposed. 

“He is an old friend.” Her tone––no pity. Thank god. 

Roman sighed, took a long blink, and dipped back on his heels. He wanted to ask more, but one question. His one question was enough. 

“You know Ger––if I wanted to be lied to, I could just hang out with my family.” 

“OK.” Gerri smiled, “Who is Tabitha?”

“Tabitha?” Roman snorted, “Tabitha is––she’s you know, she’s a person. She has––she’s seen my feet. She takes a lot of Epson salt baths. She’s––”

“Your girlfriend….” Gerri finished for him. 

“Yeah, no? I guess.”

But it wasn’t. Yeah. That. Or anything. 

“I’m gonna get back––to it.” Gerri looked back to her table. Her drink. Her date. 

“Yeah, well. Have fun, you know with D-list Pierce Bronsnan. Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding––I can get you a rocket launch. No better––I’ll get dad to die and force you to come and take control night of. No actually––”

“Roman.” She stepped into him, taking the lapels of his coat into her hands, patting them down, “You…”

She smelled like a dawning––like the first Christmas tree on the street, that you just want to topple, drag it home, own its presence. Hope to God some of that seasonal magic instills your life with––something. 

“You know…” She started untwisting his fucked up scarf, “This coat isn’t warm enough for you.”

He watched her hands work, her porcelain fingers alight with three thin gold rings. She fixed the front of his scarf back into the front of his coat, working her way up to his neck, the tips of her pointer fingernails grazed his neck. He swallowed, she raised her eyes to his. 

“I––I, know I need a new one.” 

His breathlessness granted him a wry smile. Like an amuse bouche. He wanted to inhale it in one bite. 

“Mmhmm..” she finished, “Too tight?”

“Never.” 

“You know, we have to go to London next week.”

“I’m aware.” Roman sighed, “I check my calendar now.”

“I was thinking––” Gerri murmured, “Saturday––we could get you a coat that’s right for the trip.” 

“Me and you, shopping?” 

“Of course, you have people to do that––”

“No, no, no–––” He rushed in, stole her syllables, “I will be there what time is good? When do you rise from your crypt. Or I’ll wake you, make you a tumeric shot.” 

“I’ll text.” 

“Incredible.”

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Roman returned to the apartment, sans food. 

“What the fuck?” Tabitha laughed. “Did you just eat down there?”

Roman threw himself over the couch, sunk deep, and stared ahead into the dark, sleet muddled skyline. 

“Hello?” Tabitha waved a hand in front of him. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you ok?”

“I’m just cold.” Roman tugged the lapels of his coat up to his nose, “Bone cold... and hungry.” 

END


	2. You Wear It Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day date leads to a night plan.

Gerri knew what she was doing. Of course. But even in this trivial realm, she did. 

“Freeman’s Sporting Club @ 11. Don’t be hungover.” The text read. 

He arrived about 8 to 11, wanting to get one up on her, but she was already there. Scanning a magazine, enveloped in one of those capes she donned when it was blue balls cold out. 

Those fucking capes. 

In the past two or three weeks, Roman thought of scenarios where he would accidentally get a handful of her in one of them. Like maybe, he’d just fall into her after she finished a call in the staff kitchen during an extended family dinner. And he’d have to catch her elbow to make she didn’t fall back and––you know what? Fuck #MeToo. Let’s be honest––he thought of grabbing her a lot this winter. Not like fucking rapey-Mo-McBoat-face grabbing, just like a handful of touch. And when he thought about it, he could feel the cashmere almost melt in his palm like god damn M&Ms and–––fuck fuck fuck. It was too cold out here to get into this shit. He knocked on the shop’s window. Gerri lifted her head, a "he showed up" subtext in her raised eyebrows. 

“Soviet Russia levels of grey garbage out there.” Roman shuffled in, dusting the snow off his shoulders, a store associate took his thin coat. 

Gerri tilted her head, “Gets worse before it gets better.” 

“Isn’t that what they tell gay kids?”

“Not quite.” 

“Excuse me.” The store associate interrupted. “Your––” the associate tilted his head to Gerri, not knowing who exactly she was to him. 

“My partner.” Roman supplied. 

“OK.” the store associate didn’t believe him, “Your partner has selected some fabrics, some styles. Going to have you try some on.” 

Roman clapped his hands, ”‘Let’s lube up. Shirt off?”

Gerri sighed, “Is this your first time in a retail establishment?” 

“You know, usually I just have the good assistant, the limpy one, drop a bunch of shit off from Bergdorf.” Roman trailed his fingers on some of the coats, “Some of it works.” 

“From now on, you’ll have a shopper and a tailor come to your house.”

“Why didn’t we do that today? Wanted to go on a day date?”

“You’re on a list of painful errands.” 

Roman slipped on an overcoat off a rack, “Yeah but, I’m not so easy to cross off.” 

“Turn around.”

Gerri got up to examine him. When she got this close he thought of inhaling her. Not a Jeffrey Dahmer inhale. More like—what’s the closest you can get to a human? Put your dick in them? Which sure, yeah. On the list. But beyond that. There was more to it. 

Gerri raised his slack arm and frowned, “The sleeve buttons––they’re…..pedestrian.”

“Like midwesty? Flyover state Tom vibes?”

“Very Tom.”

“Wait. How Tom am I in this? Like am I wearing my heart––and I mean, my full bleeding, pained pride on my sleeve?”

“You’ll need the expression to match.” 

Roman lifted his voice, in a feverish Tom impression, “Shiv. Shiv––you’ve got my back right? You’re not sending me back to the farm are you?” 

Gerri smirked, “He’s not bacon yet.” 

“Yeah, good old deadcat survived the summer.” 

“And it did get hot.” 

“And what about you? Outfitting a young, rakish COO to do your bidding? Does that get you hot?”

“Does it get me hot?” Gerri considered the question, “Raising a half-formed child into a semi-competent adult?” 

“Yeah. That.” 

“I don’t know. Hasn’t happened yet.”

Roman sneered, “So, anyway. I want to put some details into our agreement.” 

“Excuse me?”

“Listen. Shhh time for you, just listen.” 

He would deny, deny, deny, this if some level of ‘Inception’ corporate espionage ever got into his head––but he had practiced this little spiel in the mirror at home and now her questions were gonna fuck up his flow––

“I’d like–– No. I think it’d be smart to have weekly meetings outside the office. My place or yours. Or a middle ground, like a hotel near the park? The Mandarin?” 

“I’m not a mistress, Roman.”

“No, no.” Roman pulled his hand through his hair, it was too greasy. When was the last time he washed it? “This is not that. This is dinner, this is, we could see, I don’t fucking know––To Kill A Mockingbird.”

“You want to go see theatre...” Gerri weighed out each of her words. 

Roman willed himself. Willed his spine, willed his head, and his two brown beadies and found her eyes––a pale blue. He wanted to sink his teeth into those too, “You know Gerri, there are a lot of things––normal things, I like and enjoy company in doing.”

Gerri ran her tongue across her bottom lip, “Our teamwork is not meant for public consumption.”

“You’re general counsel. If we see someone, tell ‘em I killed somebody.”

“Too close to home.” 

“Not on the high seas killed. But whatever. But seriously.” 

“Roman.” Gerri sighed.

“We can do whatever you want.” He blurted it out, frank, honestly. He just couldn’t, couldn’t take—

“You’re never told no.” 

“I am, constantly actually. If you really take a second and think about it but, here is the thing––Ger––” Roman perched on the couch arm, “I want to take you out. Okay? I just fucking do. And not because you like telling me no or that I'm a piece of shit, which yes I enjoy on so many levels I could blow through my trust trying to solve––but just because fuck, I like being around you. And I want to be––all the fucking time. And I'll start at square one trying to do it. I'm just asking for one thing." 

Gerri lifted her chin, high and from Roman's eyes, to his chin, back around to his lips, she examined him. Her speciality. A silent full assessment to see how full of shit he was. Roman licked his lips, he couldn't stand it, "Is that a 'no'?"

“One thing."

"One thing." Roman repeated.

"Ok. The Guggenheim." 

“The twisty one?”

“Yeah. The twisty one. The Basquiat exhibit. Before it opens.”

Roman didn’t know how long it’d been, or really if it had ever happened before in his life. A 'yes'. A pure 'yes'. Was it even pure? Did he even care? Or did he care so much he didn’t even care if it was pure? 

“You’re staring.” 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just––well fuck.”

“You don't know shit about Jean-Michel Basquiat fuck or just a regular–––" Gerri snapped her tongue on her teeth, "Fuck." 

"Oh, it'll be anything but a regular 'fuck'."

“Well, let's see if you can get there.” 

END


End file.
